


Escaping

by LostinFic



Category: The Escape Artist, True Love (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Infidelity, Male-Female Friendship, Teninch Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holly is Jamies' art teacher in London. She and Will find in each other a way to escape from their daily lives, forming an unlikely friendship they both need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Softly

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after True Love and starts before The Escape Artist.  
> cw: Infidelity

When Will walked into Holly’s classroom for the first time, almost two years ago, he felt like he had been transported in another world. A serene place where time stood still. Nothing but the sound of brushes being dipped in water, clinking against glass and pencils stroking paper. A dozen little heads bent over their projects, flowing with ideas. It smelled like clay and gouache and souvenirs of primary school came back to him.

Jamie had taken refuge in her art club class after being bullied by older members of his football team. She’d given him a sheet of textured paper from her pad and a few charcoals without asking questions. And he’d taken to sneaking in every week after that.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“I’m Jamie’s dad, Will Burton,” he shook her pastel-stained hand.

“Oh yes, Kate said you’d pick him up today. You’re a bit early.”

The boy was lost in his own artistic world, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth, so focused he hadn’t even noticed his dad come in.

She’d showed him Jamie’s work, talking fondly of his progress and imagination. She enjoyed working with kids much more than she did with teenagers. Her finger had followed the lines on the canvas revealing shapes and emotions he hadn’t perceived at first. He could have listen to her dulcet tones for hours.

He’d walked around the room, examining the rest of the artwork on the walls while she helped out the children, gently guiding their work. A watercolor painting of a hummingbird in flight had caught his eyes. The only signature was a small, curly H at the bottom.

The next day, he had sat at his desk and stared at his diploma, hanging lonely on the drab wall of his office, and it had occurred to him that he should buy some paintings.

“Did you paint the hummingbird?” he asks, the next time he picks up his son.

“She made it when we went to the park,” Jamie explains.

“Do you sell your paintings? I mean, I don’t know much about art but I like your style.”

She smiles with her lips pressed together.

“Thank you but I’m not interested in married men.”

Will steps back.

“Oh no, happily married. I’m asking because my wife, she likes art, and she’s redecorating the cottage.”

She hides her blush behind her fingers.

“I’m so sorry, s’just, some dads they… Anyway, I do have an exhibit coming up in two weeks, it’s at the gallery on Bayswater Road, across from Kensington Gardens.”

It’s the first time he enters an art gallery for non-work related reasons. Holly’s minimalist watercolours and portraits hang on the tall, white walls. She stays a few steps behind him, tugging on the sleeves of her floral shirt while his whiskey eyes contemplate the canvases.

“Someone you know?” he points at a blue-eyed, dark-haired girl that appears on several paintings.

“We were together for a while,” she smiles fondly, “she’s studying in New York now.”

They’d been together longer than anyone had expected. But Karen had gotten a grant to study abroad not long after they’d moved to London and how could she not encourage her to pursue her dream. Holly was back at square one now but at least there were more interesting men and women in the city than in Margate.

Will buys two paintings, abstracts in shades of blue and grey. They stand out among the more popular seaside landscapes and wildlife sketches.

“You don’t have to,” she says.

“But I want to, I like them.”

He thinks they have a musical quality to them, the way the shapes curve and the occasional burst of colour. Somehow it reminds him of Sigur Rós. He will only tell her that months later when she drops by his office and she’s comfortable enough to ask why he chose these. “Seems appropriate,” she replies, “seeing as how I painted them when I was in Iceland.” He hangs the frames in front of his desk and finds himself staring at them whenever he needs to calm down, the colours soothing his overworked mind.

Over the course of a year, they go from chit chats in the classroom doorway to lunch at that Tibetan place, halfway between the Royal Courts of Justice and the school. It’s a dodgy place in a basement and they won’t give you a receipt but they make the best momos. She laughs at him when he can’t eat with chopsticks and drops rice on his tie.

“Good thing I have to wear a gown in court this afternoon.”

Eventually, she stops wondering what he wants from her and just enjoys his sense of humor and brilliant mind. Hereafter, she invites him in her home, a tiny place with red brick walls and worn out wooden floors that smells like mint and chamomile. It’s more two rooms than the advertised three but she fell in love with the loft bedroom. She can afford it only because she works at such a posh school and her online art prints shop is doing quite well.

He smokes on her balcony, overlooking the weeping ash trees of Rosemary Gardens, while she nibbles on custard creams. She steals the Malboro from him with her paint speckled fingers. The smoke rises in the cool May air and clouds her hazel eyes. So much of his job relies on talking that he revels in not having to say anything. It’s nothing like the tense silence of a court room, more like the peacefulness of being underwater, the outside world muted and a feeling of being suspended. They smile at each other.

Of course, he spends most of his spare time with his family but he doesn’t like the empty penthouse when Kate and Jamie are at the cottage and somewhere along the way it becomes a habit to spend those evenings at her place. They play cards or watch a movie. Sometimes he sits at the semi-circle table while she cooks. She never drops what she’s doing just because he’s there. She makes him dice the carrots and soon the homey smell of soup fills the apartment.

Most of the time they read, sitting on her overstuffed grey couch. He goes through his case files and she takes them away from him when she hears him sigh one too many time. She’s reading Jane Eyre again. “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will” she reads aloud while her toes casually seek warmth under his thigh. Sometimes she lets him fall asleep on the couch and covers him with a down quilt. And he wonders if any other 30-somethings have sleepovers.

Kate doesn’t mind, or if she does, she never says, she sometimes even tags along. But he can tell she’s a bit relieved when she invites Holly over for dinner and she brings a date. Jamie simply adores her, monopolizing her attention when he comes over with Will. He never tires of looking through her photo albums while she tells him about her travels.

It’s a friendship unlike any they’ve ever had. They couldn’t be more different, in fact they rarely agree. She sees strength in scars and beauty in a broken world. And sometimes, as brilliant a lawyer as he is, he’s all out of arguments. He likes that she could be right, that it may not be all as bad as it seems.

But, it’s like that game you play when you’re a kid, when you skip on the sidewalk and you can’t step on the lines otherwise some terrible thing will happen. You thread carefully but sometimes there’s a crack in the concrete and you can’t avoid it. And when you step on it you pretend it doesn’t count because it’s not a proper line.

On a sunny June Sunday he follows her around the Portobello market, walking along the colourful houses of Notting Hill and the stalls overflowing with knickknacks. They arrive early to avoid the crowd but there are still too many people to his liking, tourists and sellers and he grabs the bottom of her green vest so they won’t get separated. She looks for vintage buttons for her mixed media project and he looks at the swallow tattooed on her shoulder blade, its wings flapping whenever she moves her arm. She also helps him pick out milk glass bottles for his mother’s collection. Back at her place, she offers to wrap them for him and she draws pastel peonies on kraft paper while he makes grilled cheese sandwiches à la Will.

“That’s beautiful, I think she’ll like the wrapping paper more than the gift itself,” he comments.

She smiles but keeps her eyes downcast, uncomfortable with compliments. Wisps of chestnut hair fall from her ponytail and brush her cheeks. Without thinking, he reaches out and tucks the soft strands behind her ear. Her hands still. The back of his fingers grazes her jaw. And his breath catches in his throat when she turns her head just enough for her lips to caress his fingertips.

It’s a dangerous game they play. He loves his wife but he’s only human and yet he thinks he’s invincible.


	2. Cozy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his first meeting with Liam Foyle, Will shows up at Holly's place unannounced.

A draft of soap scented steam engulfs Will when Holly opens the door to her flat. She’s wrapped in a towel, hair completely wet, water trickling down her shoulders. She did not expect him. He’s never come over without ringing first. Certainly not past 9pm. She takes in his rumpled navy suit and messy hair, the deeply etched frown on his forehead.

“Oh.”

She opens the door wider and lets him in the dimly lit room.

“Just give me a minute and I’ll be with you,” she says with a hand on his shoulder.

 

Will removes his jacket and slops down on the overstuffed sofa with a loud sigh. Kate had called him around five, telling him she was going to the cottage with Jamie. He’d stayed at the office for as long as he could, unwilling to go back to his empty house, especially after his unnerving meeting with Liam Foyle today. He’d driven to Holly’s without pondering the matter too much.

She’s been drawing sea glass and he absentmindedly picks up a piece left on the coffee table. He turns it in his hand, feeling its cool, polished edges under his thumb. He can hear Holly move around in the loft bedroom above his head, opening drawers and humming "La vie en rose". The tension in his shoulders fades away. When she comes down the stairs, she’s in her pyjama, cotton shorts with little cupcakes on them. She grabs an oversized cardigan from the back of the sofa and wraps it around herself.

“Sorry, for showing up unannounced.”

“No worry, just expect me to do the same to you one day.”

“Sounds fair.”

She cracks open the patio door for fresh air and the autumnal perfume of rain and dead leaves slowly floats in.

“Tea?”

“Got anything stronger?”

“That bad, eh?”

He shrugs and looks past her at the crescent moon out the window.

“Alright, I’ll get the emergency whiskey.”

“Emergency whiskey?”

“Essential in any survival kit worth having,” she says with a smirk.

He chuckles, the first positive emotion since meeting his new client.

She opens the cupboard above the microwave and pulls out a bottle then pours the fine 30 year-old liquor in two mugs. She sits down on a big oriental cushion on the other side of the coffee table, some sort of upcycled drift wood piece, and clinks her mug with his.

Somewhat clumsily, she proceeds to shuffle a pack of cards, the one with the Art Nouveau figures she likes so much. She deals the cards while he clears away the pencils and paper. Somewhere between his first Nintendo and the latest iPad he forgot about card games. Then he met Holly. Now he likes the smoothness of the worn out cardboard between his slender fingers and the simplicity of it all. They play gin rummy without exchanging a word. The predictability of the game reassures him and the whiskey warms him up nicely. He removes his tie and pops open the first buttons of his white shirt. Another sip from his mug, the amber liquid deliciously burns his throat.

It’s her turn. She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip, her eyelashes casting feathery shadows on her cheeks as she looks down at her hand. She’s still humming the old French song, seemingly unaware she’s doing it.

“Who sings that?”

“Hmm? La vie en Rose? Edith Piaf. It’s stuck in my head, ‘cause I thought about that Audrey Hepburn movie today, you know, Sabrina.”

“Never heard of it.”

When his turn comes, he carefully places his cards down with a winning smile.

“Oi, that’s illegal!” she says, her voice mild even when she protests.

His left eyebrow rises.

“I think I’d know if it were.”

“Oh shut it, lawyer boy.”

His only answer is a disarming smirk and she’s glad the room is dark enough that he can’t see her blush.

In the end, she doesn’t argue and lets him win because he’s a sore loser and he’s obviously had a rough day. She gathers the playing cards and carefully puts them back in the battered package before standing up. She flexes her cramped legs as she ties her now wavy hair in a messy bun on top of her head. Will brings the empty cups to the adjacent kitchen to rinse them out.

“Hot chocolate?” he asks.

His offer takes her by surprise, she thought he’d leave after the game.

“Yes, please.”

“Water or milk?”

“Milk.”

The thought of a hot beverage, makes her aware of the chilly air still coming in through the door and she closes it. Then, Holly leans against the column, the only division between the two rooms, and observes Will busying himself in her kitchen as if he owns the place. He has yet to explain his impromptu visit.

“Do you have that movie you mentioned, Sabrina?” he asks over his shoulder while he adds tiny marshmallows in each cup. 

“Yeah, you wanna watch it?”

He nods.

“Well, unless you don’t want to, I mean, it’s a wee bit late.”

“I don’t mind, tomorrow’s Saturday anyway, I’m not working.”

“I am. I should…” he runs a hand through his hair.

“Stay,” she puts her arm around his shoulders and pushes him toward the living room, “Did I mention it’s with Humphrey Bogart too?”

“Oh I like him.”

They settle comfortably, the smell of cocoa warming them as much as the cream fleece blanket they cover themselves with. Her old loveseat dips in the middle, bringing them closer as a young Audrey Hepburn appears on the screen. He’ll never see the end of the movie. Not long after Sabrina and Linus’ boat excursion, he dozes off.

He’s faintly aware of his stiff leather belt digging uncomfortably in his side. His feet are still on the floor but his upper body his bent sideways at an unnatural angle, his head resting on Holly’s stomach. She is warm and cushy under his cheek. In his sluggish state, he simply adjusts his position by folding his legs up on the sofa. She combs her fingers through his hair, relieved to see him so peaceful.


	3. Foggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

It’s a foggy Saturday morning the likes of which they haven’t seen in years. Fog as thick as cotton wool cloaks the outside world. “I can’t even see the buildings across the street,” Holly comments. He was already disoriented when he woke up on her couch, the surreal feeling of being up in the clouds hadn’t helped.

It would be unwise to leave her home and drive to work.

 

Will, still in his pin stripe boxer shorts and white undershirt, sits at the tiny kitchen table and watches her as she pulls jams and marmalades of all kinds from the fridge.

“Squash blossoms and lychee,” he reads on the tag of a small glass container.

“I get loads of these every year from parents,” she explains.

“Well, I hope you have a lot of bread.”

She smiles and puts the whole multigrain loaf on the table. She then pours water from the kettle over fresh ground coffee in the French press.

“Jamie wants to invite you to his birthday party.”

“He wants his teachers at his birthday party?”

“He wants one of his teachers.”

“Aaw, he’s such a cutie pie. When is it?” she asks, as she brings cream and sugar over to the table.

“Next Saturday.”

“Oh no, I can’t, I’m going back to Margate for the weekend. I’ll get him a gift.”

“Don’t bother buying anything, he loves that drawing of him as a superhero you made.”

The first slices of bread pop out of the toaster. Will tries every flavour of jam, eyebrows drawn together in concentration with each bite. They eat in companionable silence, not even disturbed by the usual sound of traffic or passersby. It’s really like being up in the clouds, away from everything. She likes these lazy Saturday mornings when she still has the whole weekend ahead of herself and there’s no hurry. She brushes a few crumps off her pyjama top, a baby blue camisole, and pours dark coffee in her mug. She brings her legs up on the chair, back against the red brick wall and holds her steaming cup over her knees. Will is slumped down, hands over his full stomach, looking pleased. He smiles at her. He has a perfectly good excuse to stay right where he wants to be and that makes him happy. Well, almost, there’s just one more thing he needs.

He stands up and walks to the shelves lining the living room wall. They’re filled with books and CDs and DVDs and souvenirs from her travels. He browses her abundant music collection until coming upon something that strikes his fancy. Still holding her coffee cup, Holly enters the living room and stares at him with curiosity.

A jazzy harmony of trumpets and piano spills through the speakers.

“Louis?” she asks.

“And Ella.”

“Good choice,” she beams.

The recognizable, raspy voice of Louis Armstrong, followed by Ella Fitzgerald’s sultry one, echo in the room. Holly sways slowly from side to side to the rhythm of "The nearness of you".

When Will takes her cup away from her, she gives him a quizzical look. He takes her hand in his and places the other one just under her shoulder blade.

“Err, Will?”

“Shh. Just dance.”

“Ok.”

They’re slightly clumsy at first but soon move their hips with a certain fluidity and turn on the spot without stepping over each other’s bare feet. He’s not as stiff as she’d have expected. When a more upbeat song comes on, he makes her twirl and she laughs with delight. Slowly, they close the gap between their bodies, oscillating lazily. Her cheek nestles in the crook of his shoulder, detecting a faint trace of yesterday’s cologne on his skin. She’d forgotten how much she enjoys slow dancing. His hand slides down her back, his little finger brushing against a spot of naked skin, accidentally at first until more fingers slip under her top, seeking soft skin.

The pitter-patter of rain mixes with the melody of "Isn’t it a lovely day" and soon the fog has cleared. The grey London sunlight comes in the room, unfiltered, accompanied by the noises of a busy street. The bubble is burst. Reality catches up with them.

When Will looks down at her, he finds that she seems quite sad. His hazel eyes find hers.

“What is it?”

“I… I have a knack for falling for the wrong person and I don’t want that to happen with you. I like having you as a friend… but you’re making it very hard.”

He rests his chin on top of her head with a sigh.

“Make no mistakes: you’re making it very hard for me too.”

“I think you should go now.”

 

They don’t see each other for weeks after that. She’s busy with a contract for a children’s book and he’s elbow deep in evidence. And other excuses. It’s a good thing, this space between them, she tells herself in a futile attempt at not missing him. She thinks she’ll be more cautious next time, meet him in a public place, ask him to call first, won’t let him sleep at her place. 

Except when he shows up late at night on her doorstep with sunken eyes, she has to let him in.

“Bogart?” she asks, wondering if he’ll get the reference.

He pulls a DVD out of the inner pocket of his coat. Casablanca. Serious business.

Kate and Jamie are at his in-law’s, their home was empty and too silent, the echo of his own footsteps scared him. All he could think about was Holly’s little, cozy nest. Once his mind was made up, he’d come straight over without bothering to change out of his dark sweatpants and t-shirt. She’s in a similar getup, in shades of cream and lavender, and when he kisses her cheek, he smells fresh laundry.

Mumford & Sons is playing in the background and her laptop is opened on the kitchen table.

“I just need to finish a few things first,” she says.

“Sure, what are you doing?” he asks while filling the kettle with water.

“Working on my website and a few invoices I need to take care of.”

He opens the pantry and stares at her collection of teas (another popular gift at the end of the school year) and finally decides on a peach-scented oolong. The loose tea leaves blossom and twirl in the glass teapot.

“How’s business going?”

“Quite well, I sold almost 30 art prints in the last weeks, even sold one to someone in Japan. I have to go by the post office almost everyday to send them. The guy who works at the counter asked me out.”

Will almost drops the teapot, scalding himself when he catches it at the last second.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he replies as he puts his fingers under cool water, “… did you go?”

“I did, it was… okay.”

They’d gone for a drink yesterday, as it turns out he was a wanker but a very good looking one. She’d slept with him in a sort of “I’m an independent woman and I’m not emotionally crippled by my relationships with married men” kind of way. It was fun and all but now she’ll have to find another post office to go to.

Will finally sits down in front of her, his fingers drumming on the table. Only a few sips and he’s up again. Holly watches him from the corner of her eyes as he starts folding the clean towels she left on top of the washing machine.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?” she asks as she closes her laptop.

He stops what he’s doing and sighs. He doesn’t want to bother her with his problems, he’s said only the bare minimum to Kate. But it’s eating him from the inside, like a perpetual weight, cold metal, twisting at the bottom of his stomach.

He sits on the chair next to hers and the look he gives her pulls at her heart. She places her hand on the nape of his neck, her thumb caressing the short hair and tender skin. He closes his eyes for a few seconds.

And finally he tells her what’s going on. He tells her about the way his skin crawls whenever he meets Liam Foyle, about his restless conscience and his unethical desire to purposely lose the case. She listens, hand warm on his neck, reminding him of her support when he’s miles away in his head.

There’s one thing he doesn’t mention, one that seems fairly problematic to her: his ego.

“Maybe now would be a good time to lose a case, make it count.”

He shrugs and she knows his mind is already made up.

“I need a smoke.”

He grabs his coat and she puts on a thick wool sweater and they step outside, on the small balcony. In the distance, dogs howl at the full moon and the wind ruffles the last persistent leaves of the sycamore trees. The orange glow of a nearby lamppost illuminates Will’s fine features and dark eyes. His cigarette sizzles with every drag, its red tip momentarily brighter.

“I stopped ten years ago, never relapsed until now,” he says, contemplating the cigarette.

“Me too,” and she takes it from his fingers and puts it between her plump lips.

He looks at her, she’s blowing smoke up in the night air, her head tilted back with her forearms on the railing, her hair is floating in the wind, skimming her angular jaw. Sometimes he gets the strongest urge to kiss her.

“So, are we ever going to watch that movie?”

When she turns her head, he’s only a few inches away from her. His eyes drop to her lips. Her heart skips a beat. Their foreheads touch. The fog on their breaths mingle. She closes her eyes and fists his sweater, their hips collide. A husky voice: “Fuck”. She decides for him. She kisses his cheek, pressing her lips fully, with a sigh. But his hand snakes up her neck and grabs her hair, bringing her mouth to his, and it’s more anger and frustration than tenderness. It’s raw and indecent, wet, exchanging the tastes of tobacco and peaches. His mouth is demanding, his hands commanding and she complies eagerly. And when she bites his bottom lip, a strangled moan escapes his throat, resonating in the night.

When he pulls away, he looks shaken, eyes wide, swollen lips slightly parted, he’s panting.

“I believe Bogart is waiting for us,” she says, her sotto voce words a contrast to the fire she just exhibited.


End file.
